Today I have no letter from one imaginary person to another, but I have one for you, whoever is reading me. I do not know who you will be — I suspect someone who knows me in real life, who pictures me with my small brown hands, hunched over the keyboard with poor posture, conjuring people who do not exist, who write to other ghosts.
Sometimes writing is cruel in its unpredictability. One day a woman wakes up and realizes she has nothing to say, and that puts in doubt every day she woke up thinking otherwise. All these words are useless, in the end, she thinks. But they are no more useless than taking vitamins, sending a budget report, washing the sheets, hemming a pair of trousers. Everything is done in vain, from a certain perspective. The only reason that sustains me is that sometimes I publish a letter and a friend sends me a line that says, "I liked that one." Or "that sentence is good." That is enough for me.
There are some letters I do not like myself. That is fine. What I am trying to do is put something out each week, because I confess it frightens me to be read. I have been working on managing that absolute loss of control that comes the moment one publishes a word — or, for that matter, when one says it aloud. Incomprehension must be a sign of a deep loneliness, of never truly being seen by anyone. The reverse is no better: it would be worse to be seen, to have people know to what extent you are foolish, neurotic, prejudiced, lacking in talent.
Today I wanted to write a letter from a fisherman to his dog. It is a relief to think that I can imagine the fisherman, and the dog, and the fierce tenderness between them as they sit in the sand watching the stars — and not conclude that I am losing my mind. There are many opportunities for heartache in this world full of sorrows. But there are also dogs, and fishermen, and stars. There are imaginary stories that are only shadows of the real ones. Perhaps by next week I will manage to turn one into correspondence. Until then.